Figures of Speech
by Nehszriah
Summary: Clara wants a little role-reversal this particular Date Night. Unfortunately for her, the alien stick-insect she's dating is still adjusting to the whole thought process thing. Possibly more rated Tplus, due to hints at nsfw material, but not full-on M.


A/N: Sometimes, when I have the availability to fulfill prompts, I open up a window of time for people to submit an idea to my writing tumblr. This is the product of one of those times.

The prompt for this one was "Please elaborate on "12 cannot dominate anything more than a sandwich". Your choice on how literal you want to take it." Wholly taps into the extreme version of not only sub!Twelve, but so-alien-he-needs-to-mentally-map-everything!Twelve, as well as oblivious-dork!Twelve; contains hints towards nsfw material; takes place post-Last Christmas, in a verse where Clara still has a life on Earth, yet the two have been exploring the explicit parts of being in a relationship

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Figures of Speech

She had done everything to specification, right down to the number of long-burning candles and how many roses she had to disassemble to achieve the right about of petals spread across her bedspread. Now there she was, standing in a brand-new (and rather revealing) nightie and garters, holding champagne flutes in one hand and the opened bottle in the other, as the Doctor stood just outside the TARDIS door.

"You… erm… redecorated, yeah?" he said, mouth agape and not entirely sure how to address the situation. Clara passed him one of the flutes and filled it with champagne.

"It's Date Night," she reminded him gently. "You remember what happens on Date Night."

"Yes, but… you're a different height," he noted. Leaning forward, he sniffed tentatively. "You're a different height and a different _smell_. Do we need to lure an animal out of a tree?"

Clara sighed and filled her glass and took a sip from it—at least he was used to the makeup enough to refrain from commenting on it. "I bought new shoes for the occasion and I when I was cleaning last week I found a bottle of scent I haven't worn in years. Do you like it?"

"I like _you_ , Clara," the Doctor replied. He took a tentative taste of his drink and scrunched his face. "Nope; don't think this face likes champagne. Do you have an Irn Bru hanging about?"

"In the kitchen, cupboard down-left of the sink, bottom shelf," she replied heavily. As he cheerily left the room, she put down her drink and sat down on the edge of the mattress, crossing her legs suggestively. If she played this right, the both of them could have an incredible night with her putting in barely any effort during the act at all. Not that Clara wasn't fond of molding her space-stick insect like wet clay in her hands, but part of her wanted to switch things up a bit; she wanted to be the one molded and shaped for once, and she knew that the Doctor could be the one to do it. He was about ready to make the step—she knew he was. She puffed out her chest and leaned backwards, waiting for him to return with half the bottle gone and a curious expression on his beaky face.

"Are you being indirect again?" he wondered.

"I'm trying to see what makes you tick," Clara admitted, becoming increasingly annoyed. "I had been _hoping_ we could have a little bit of role-reversal tonight, but nothing seems to be sparking that."

"Role-reversal would be a bit difficult, wouldn't it?" the Doctor asked. He sat down on the bed next to her, casually drinking his pop. "I mean, you're not biologically equipped for role-reversal, so I would imagine it would be rather…" He paused, eyes going wide and brows arching high. "Did you buy a false one?"

"No, you gob, I meant you taking charge for once," she said. Leaning in closer, she shrugged as she elaborated, "You know… _ravishing me_?"

"That would imply a breach of trust and boundaries," he explained solemnly. "I don't ravish… _we_ don't ravish. There's nothing good that comes from ravishing."

"That was a figure of speech," she deadpanned. "I thought you were good at those once. Don't you remember?"

"Just because I was good at something once doesn't mean I'm good at something now." The Doctor finished off the bottle and capped it, placing it next to the discarded champagne. "New muscles don't always react to old memories."

"Well then, how about this?" Clara replied. She slid one arm around his waist and let the other hand pull at the zipper of his hooded sweatshirt. "We get you undressed and then you have permission to do whatever you want to me."

"…it works that way?"

"Yes, it does, as long as said permission is given," she chuckled. Gently, she began to kiss him, work him up, hoping once he would go on auto-pilot once he hit a certain point. Peel off his sweatshirt, jumper, t-shirt—so spare and wiry underneath, all tendons and bone and the barest bit of muscle—working off his belt with surprising ease. Clara laid on the bed, pulling the Doctor down with her. Spreading out, she positioned him right above her, giving him all the invitation necessary. She broke the kiss, tilting up her chin and baring her neck, waiting for him to descend and continue.

"Ummm… Clara?"

"Yes…?"

"I can't reach your mouth."

Now wholly exasperated, the human groaned as she sat up and flipped her alien boyfriend onto his back. He made a surprised noise upon landing and a strained, pleading sound as she began to take charge, again, and hold him down by his wrists… again. "Like this," she murmured into his neck. "You take me like _this_."

"Are… are you sure…?" he breathed, voice high and raspy. "Usually when I take you places, you're wearing all your clothes…"

"Figure of speech, and stop trying to divert the topic." Clara bit down on his neck and began grinding up against him, toying with the routine they already had down pat.

Maybe he wasn't as ready as she thought he was. They had time, though.


End file.
